


Insha'Allah

by Arithanas



Category: Les Hommes Libres (2011)
Genre: Canon LGBTQ Male Character, M/M, Male Character of Color, Smoking, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: Younes think of Salim and missed chances.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildestranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/gifts).



…tek, tek, doum, doum, ka, tek, tek, doum, tek, ka, tek, ka, doum, pa…

 _Insha'Allah_ , the day will come when Younes Ben Daoud stop hearing the beat of Salim Halali’s fingers on the _darbuka_ , but today was not that day. Younes lived to see the day the fascism was beaten in France, and that rhythm had been beating steadily in his heart and his head for four years.

Younes had gone to the mosque out of habit, not because he felt the need to share with his own group. His hands were bloodied; his heart was hard ― yet people coming and going in the big courtyard stirred a nostalgic feeling in his heart. Kids ran and cried, absorbed in their childish games.

“I’m fighting for freedom.” The words of his cousin Ali rang in Younes’s ears; those were never tempered by melancholy after so many years. “In France today, Algeria tomorrow, and then, all North Africa.”

They have won the war for every child in France, those who were born in its soil and those who came later. Younes and his associates carried the weight of horror and danger so they could have a future.  If there was a hint of regret on Younes's heart, it vanished at the sound of happy children. Younes's lips moved in silent prayer, asking to be allowed to see that with their own eyes, one day. He will live to bear witness of a free Algeria, _insha'Allah_.

Younes didn't want to deny he had felt an eerie attraction to Salim. During many a lonely night, among the danger and suspicion, Younes has imagined the line of his lips and the shine of his extraordinary eyes. There were nights when Younes had gone to rest his weary body with the memory of Salim's voice soaring high, talking to him of their land and the people they left behind. His voice carried the force of the wind over the sand and the homesickness of the traveller. Salim’s songs speak of his own struggles, distilling his longings and hopes in words of magnificent beauty.

"May I live to kiss my mother's feet once more,"   Younes speak in Arabic, the language of his youth, but there was little hope his mother had survived the war.

Si Kaddour Ben Ghabrit was welcoming. Younes haven’t expected him to remember him ― but he did, and in quite detail. He provided details about Salim and his work; but Younes received the information, uncertain of what to do next. Younes had left the mosque; there was a void where any emotion should be.

It was much later, while he was sipping coffee from a glass, that Younes allowed himself to think about the issue. War had kept him busy. Distractions were dangerous. When there is not enough to eat, there is not enough to dream. Younes picked up the battered package of cigarettes and fumbled until he found one.

“Here,” the woman behind the bar said, pushing a box of matches over the surface.

Younes looked at her and noticed the mischievous glint in her eyes. Maybe she had witnessed how much time he invested in finding his cigarettes.

“Thank you.”

“These are rousing times,” she said, taking his empty glass and putting it among the other for wash. “I suppose you are mustering the courage to see that special one after the war.”

Younes smiled but he provided no reply. She had hit the nail on the head, sort to speak.

The cigarette was lit. A cloud of smoke rose from its end, and Younes thought of Andalousie and the small stage where Salim sang of black eyes, of the way his shirt button was loose and the hollow of his neck was exposed. The memory of Salim’s dark and curly hair, shining under the lights, made him felt his stomach empty and his neck stiff. His presence while performing was nothing Younes had experienced before.

The acrid smoke inside his mouth reminded him the taste of the liquor and the heavy head he woke up to the next morning. Had he really stoked Salim’s sideburns while he climbed the stairs or was that a dream? Younes was not sure if he wanted that caress to be real and, at the same time, he didn’t want to live in a world in which they hadn’t shared the warmth of their skin even for the briefest moment.

Another mouthful of smoke brought back regret that had been buried for so long. As he smoked, Younes regretted not having kissed those lips or burying his hands in that dark, silky hair; that would have been something to miss with the appropriate amount of grief.

Younes fidgeted with his package of cigarettes, wondering if that kiss would have changed his story to some extent. Younes didn’t know if Salim would have accepted his kiss…  

A perfect roll of ashes hit the bar, but Younes didn’t notice it. His mind was a relieving Maryvonne’s birthday ― Salim’s big smile as he sang about Americans, and how everybody was dancing. Even Younes had been driven to dance out of intoxication. He'd been drowning in Salim’s happiness, feeling how his voice wound up around Younes’s body, calling and enticing Younes beyond his will.

The calling was not for him, as Younes discovered when he was asked to give Salim a piece of the Christmas cake. He never knew who the youngster was, but he will never forget his brazen expression and the way his plump lips seemed to be shiny with sin. Salim’s smile was even more radiant than the one he sported when he was singing at the party.

Younes cried that night; he cried about missed chances and about unknown loves. The pain of being spurned was nothing he had known before.

“Another cup?” The woman behind the bar asked, plucking the burnt cigarette from Younes’s fingers. “It looks like you might need another.”

“No.” Younes didn’t fight her, and leaned back so she could wipe out the ash from the bar. “I must get going.”

She mumbled some words about loved ones and luck, but Younes didn’t pay her any attention. His mind was distracted with possibilities. Four years had passed and maybe, if Younes showed the same courage he had shown working for the Resistance, he could ask a kiss from Salim.

The idea put a new spring on his steep and Younes started to walk towards the 11th arrondissement of Paris with the conviction that he could find the place where Salim would be singing tonight.

He could take this again from where he left it, _insha'Allah_.


End file.
